Velocity

“Fucking looks like him.”

Vail glanced at the house, her eyes checking things out. Then she leaned down to catch Dixon’s gaze. “Roxx, listen to me.”

“What’s his reaction going to be to an armed assault?”

“He won’t surrender, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That is what I’m asking,” Dixon said. “Those hostages inside are in a heap of trouble. We have a window, before this escalates. I don’t think he knows we’re here. This is the best shot we’re gonna have. Right?”

Vail bit down on her lip. “Probably. Yes.”

Dixon rose from her crouch. “Then I’m going in. We approach from opposite angles, we’ve got him. He doesn’t have a gun.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because he didn’t shoot this guy. Looks like he did what Mayfield did: crushed his trachea, slit his wrists. That’s the way he kills.”

“We think that’s the way he kills. We don’t know enough about him to reach definitive conclusions about his behaviors, about his identity as a killer.”

“I’ve got all I need right here.”

“Roxx, don’t—”

Dixon started climbing the slick hill. “I’m going in the front. If you’re gonna help me out, count to sixty, then go in the back.” She stopped and turned. “You with me?”

Vail rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, the one holding the Glock. I hate situations like this. You know it’s the wrong thing to do, but you have no choice. “Don’t get me killed, Roxx. I still have to find Robby. And I’ve got a kid, remember?”

“Then we’d better be careful. Sixty seconds. Fifty-nine Mississippi, fifty-eight Mississippi, and so on. On my mark. Ready?”

Vail nodded.

“Mark.” Dixon turned and scurried away. Into the darkness.

31

Vail made her way up the slippery wooden steps onto the deck that led to the backdoor. At least with wet wood there was less chance of a board squeaking under her weight.

Counting. Forty-five. Forty-four.

There were two windows, one on either side of the door, which was partially constructed of glass. She crept along, keeping herself low. Inspected the jamb and considered where she would need to strike the door to blast it inward. Because of its construction, she knew she could do it—using her good leg.

Thirty. Twenty-nine.

She put her ear to the crack in the weather seal, down below the window line. Listened. One, perhaps two, female voices whimpering. Maybe Roxx was right. Going in now before he killed someone else made sense. Didn’t it?

Seventeen. Sixteen.

Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. She would kick in the door, then go in low. It was always risky when you did not know the floor plan of the house you were infiltrating. Where was your target? Would you be immediately visible to him upon entry? And most disconcerting . . . did he have a weapon? In close quarters combat like this, a knife was often more dangerous than a handgun.

Infiltrate, rapidly assess: Was your immediate environment safe? Were your hostages in imminent danger? Had your appearance placed them in imminent danger?

Five. Four.

Vail stepped back—she was now in view of the home’s occupants should they choose to look—and brought her right leg up and then thrust it forward, just below the knob.

The jamb cracked and splintered, and the door flew open. Vail dropped to the floor and clambered into the room—it was the kitchen—and brought her back up against the wood cabinets. Listened.

Shouting—screaming.

Vail spun around the edge of the wall, Glock out in front of her, and moved down the carpeted hallway toward the light—and the commotion. There! In the family room, three females. One woman. Early thirties. Two girls, about eight and nine, sporting tear-streaked red cheeks.

No sign of James Cannon. Not good—he could be behind me, or he could be choking Dixon, right now—

Slamming noise. Loud, something smashing into a wall. Again, and again.

Vail followed the noise and stopped in front of the three women, whose wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape. A taut strip stretched across their mouths. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” She quickly pulled off the mother’s gag, which elicited a whimper. Vail ignored it. “Scissors?”

“In the drawer,” the mother said. “The desk—”

Vail swung around and found the piece of furniture three strides away. Grabbed the scissors, cut the ankle bindings. “Out the back,” she said. “Go!”

She would be sending them where the woman’s husband and the girls’ father was lying dead—but their physical safety was of paramount importance. Their mental health could be addressed later.

Now. Find Dixon.

A loud thump. A groan.

Vail slipped out of the family room, then moved down the hallway toward the front door. There, laid out face up on the carpet was James Cannon—and Dixon astride him, pounding away at his face. “Roxx!”

Another punch.

Vail ran forward and grabbed the back of Dixon’s shirt. “Roxx, enough!”

Dixon’s shoulders rose and fell with rapid heaves as she got up and stumbled backward. Vail almost gasped when she saw her partner’s face: red welts over the left eye, which was already swollen half shut. A bruise across her right cheek.

Cannon didn’t look much better: his mouth, which hung open, was bloody, his teeth coated a slasher-film burgundy.

“Cuffs,” Vail said, then swung her Glock into her holster. As Dixon handed them over, Vail asked, “Where’s your SIG?”

Dixon looked left, then right, then paced up and down the hallway. Vail knew she would want to locate it before SWAT arrived on scene. Having your sidearm taken from you in a confrontation was embarrassing—and bordered on incompetent.

Vail pulled the radio from her back pocket. “H-30, this is Vail. All secure. Repeat. All secure. Suspect in custody. Request ambulance.”

“Roger that, Agent Vail.”

Dixon came up to her, SIG in hand. She slipped it into her holster without offering a word.

“So what happened?”

“I came through the door, and he was on me as soon as I stepped through. We both landed some good shots, but I think I got the worst of it. I went down and he came at me, but I landed a hard kick in his steroid- shrunken balls. That was all I needed. I got to my feet and kneed him pretty hard in the face. Broke his nose, for sure. He staggered back and I landed a few good blows. He went down, and a couple punches later, you appeared.”

“A couple punches?”

Dixon flexed her swollen right hand. “Maybe a few more.”

Red, blue, and white lights strobed through the drawn window curtains, projecting a nervous energy onto the far wall. The thumping beat of the H-30’s rotors intensified, indicating that the chopper had dropped to a safe distance above the house. Vail felt the vibration in her chest, and she fought the urge to cough or bang it to dislodge the discomfort.

She made her way to the backdoor and saw the helicopter’s white beacon bathing the rear yard in light. A CSI Vail hadn’t yet met was slipping and sliding toward the dead body lying on the wet bed of pine needles and